


Snakeskin

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Episode Related: Sentinel Too, Episode Related: The Sentinel: by Blair Sandburg, First Times, M/M, Part Two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his first kill, Blair has a decision to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snakeskin

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the Zoo Crew for their ideas and insights. Thanks also to Aleia, for helping me write the sex scene that wasn't meant to be. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome. 

## Snakeskin

by Ghostbuster Girl

Author's disclaimer: Technically, this is a copyright infringement. I know that. I'm hoping that Pet Fly will overlook me.

* * *

The clock clicked to 4:30, and Blair was still awake. Jim could hear him breathing downstairs - not a sleeping rhythm, but a deeper, more deliberate one that spoke of swallowed tears and calming exercises. Jim pictured his roommate lying in the futon with the blankets pulled tightly over his shoulders, shivering from a chill that couldn't be fought. Jim imagined the blue eyes red with fatigue, and the dark curls frizzy from a night of tossing and turning on the narrow futon. He imagined Blair's lips, moving in a soundless mantra of pain. 

A slight air current drifted up the stairs, carrying the salty scent of teardrops. Jim extended his hearing far enough to confirm the quiet tremor in Blair's next breath, used his nose to track the subtle waves of misery sloughing off his guide. 'Oh Blair,' Jim thought, hugging his pillow closer. Cradling the pillow, Jim's mind returned to the day's earlier events . . . 

Blair's hands had cradled the revolver between them; his eyes wore a confused expression, as if he didn't know what he held, as if he'd never seen a gun before. His eyes moved desperately to Jim's face, his expression pleading for the sentinel to somehow, please, just make it go away. Jim had shook his head once, breaking away from the eye contact, and Blair's face fell. 

Blair silently handed the gun to Jim and wiped his hand on his jeans, leaving an accusing streak of red against the faded denim. Then he pushed past Jim, past the hive of uniforms swarming into the warehouse, and ran to the truck where it was parked against the fence. For a moment, Blair stared skyward, his beautiful face shiny with tears. All at once, he shuddered, knelt, and heaved his guts into the dandelions beside the truck, steadying himself against the passenger door. 

When Jim caught up with him, Blair seemed to pull himself together. He accepted the arm Jim placed around his shoulders, and nodded shakily at Simon's orders to go home, get cleaned up, and for God's sake see the counselor tomorrow. He was quiet on the ride back to the loft, forestalled Jim's offer to talk with a firm, "Not now, Jim," and headed straight to the bathroom once they got home, no doubt eager to wash the day's events off him. 

Jim dug through Blair's drawers until he found a set of soft sweats and a pair of heavy woolen socks, and he sneaked into the steamy bathroom to place them next to Blair's towel. He breathed in the thick odors of Blair's body wash and shampoo, Blair's own body scent rising up as the blood and fear smells washed away. Jim hurried out again before Blair finished, feeling sick at his own desire to stay and ask if Blair needed any help drying off. What type of man fantasized about his roommate at a time like this? 

Thoroughly disgusted at himself, Jim moved to the kitchen to distract his mind from the image of the thick, fluffy towel moving over Blair's wet body. Jim fixed macaroni and cheese - the homemade kind, thick with melted cheese sauce - and opened a jar of applesauce. If Blair complained about the cholesterol, so be it. This was definitely an occasion for comfort food. 

Blair had finally emerged from the bathroom, damp and red from his prolonged stay in the shower. He nodded his thanks to Jim for the sweats, and cuddled into the arm of the couch, pulling the afghan around him. Jim handed him a plate of macaroni and a cup of Chamomile tea, which Blair accepted with a wan smile. 

Blair sipped thoughtfully at the tea, obviously appreciating the warmth, but didn't touch the macaroni. Jim, for his part, watched Blair. Finally, the younger man sighed, placing his cup on the table. 

"Look Jim," he said, resting a hand on his roommate's arm. "I'm not going to pretend that this isn't bothering me, but I'm not going to fall to pieces on you either. Just give me some time to process, man. Can you do that?" 

Jim had nodded, shamefaced, and set himself to clearing up the dishes, scraping Blair's untouched macaroni into a Tupperware container. Blair, for his part, drifted into his room, carrying his teacup with him. After a while, Jim heard one of his meditation CD's start up and smelled the acrid striking of a match followed by the sweet burning candles. He thought Blair had worked through the day's events in typical Sandburgian fashion. Apparently, he'd been wrong. 

Jim hugged the pillow closer, wishing for the courage to walk downstairs and knock on Blair's door. Surely it would be okay to just hold Blair for a while, to share the comfort of a warm body. But that was assuming that Blair wanted to be held. Maybe something less would be better, a pat on the shoulder, or another cup of tea. 

"Why?" Blair's soft whisper drifted up the stairs, so quiet that Jim wouldn't have heard if his hearing were dialed down to normal levels. "Why, why, why?" 

Jim climbed out of bed and padded down the stairs in his boxers. He hesitated outside the French doors, listening to his roommate's quiet noises. The whispering had stopped when Jim was halfway down the stairs; that and a number of other things - a soft hitch in Blair's breathing, a quickening of the familiar heartbeat - told Jim that Blair heard him. Taking a deep breath, Jim knocked once on the glass panes and opened the door without waiting for an answer. 

"Everything all right, Chief?" 

Blair sat like a child with his knees drawn up to his chest under the wild- patterned comforter. But the dark stubble lining his cheeks and jaw belayed that notion, and the eyes - Jim drew in a breath at the weariness in those stormy blue eyes. 'He looks old,' Jim realized with a feeling of despair. 'He looks like . . . a cop.' He remembered when he first saw that expression on himself in the mirror. He'd never, ever wanted to see it on Blair. 

"I'm sorry, Jim," Blair was saying, his voice flat and hollow. "I didn't know I was talking out loud. Never meant to wake you up, man." 

"Can't sleep, Chief?" Jim asked, not knowing how to ask the real questions on his mind. Blair shrugged, a half-hearted movement, so different from his usual enthusiastic body language. Jim stepped closer to the futon, trying to catch his partner's eyes in the light. 

"You had a rough day," Jim whispered. 

Blair shuddered, and in the faint moonlight shining through the shutters, Jim could see the dried tracks of tears on his face. The sight made Jim's jaw clench, and he swallowed, suddenly afraid. Sitting beside Blair on the futon, he pushed a still-damp curl away from his partner's face, staring deeply into the blue eyes. 

"It's going to be alright, Chief," he said. Beneath the shampoo and the body wash and the distressing smell of upset Blair, Jim could still pick up the faintest trace of blood clinging to the long curls. 

Blair looked away, taking a shuddering breath. "I can still see it, man. Every time I close my eyes. The look on his face, the blood . . . do you know how many times I've washed my hands tonight, Jim? I can't get it off me!" 

Jim caught one of Blair's hands and lifted it, gently running his fingers over the palm. "There's no more blood, Chief." 

"Yes there is!" Blair snatched his hand back, hugging it to his own chest. "There is. It's here, inside me. You just can't see it. " Blair's face crumpled at the words, his eyes squeezing shut. The first tear formed into a sparkling diamond against the tender skin of the eyelids before dropping to slide down the stubbly cheek, and then another followed. Jim acted on instinct, pulling the other man against his chest. 

Blair stiffened, but Jim held him tightly. After a moment, the younger man melted into the embrace, reaching to clutch Jim's back with trembling hands. Jim shifted him closer, burying his face in the dark curls. "It's alright," he whispered, wondering which of them he meant the words for. "It's okay." 

Blair shook his head against Jim's chest, his voice raw with tears. "I killed him. I'm a killer." Jim squeezed Blair close, tears welling up in his own eyes. 

"You did what you had to do, Chief. You saved those hostages. You saved me." But Blair didn't answer, and the quiet sobs continued to shake his slender body. Jim pressed him tighter, his own tears darkening the sable curls. Even in his despair, Blair responded to the other man's pain, stroking Jim's back firmly. They held each other until the last of the sobs died away, and then a bit longer still. 

Blair took a deep breath, exhaling it softly onto Jim's bare shoulder. "I don't know if I can do this cop thing anymore," he whispered. 

Jim closed his eyes feeling a flood of despair rising within him. He opened his mouth to protest, but somehow, here in Blair's bed with Blair in his arms and Blair's tears dampening his shoulder, Jim couldn't bring himself to say the selfish words. 

"I know," he whispered instead, his heart finally cracking at the words. "You do what you need to do, Chief." 

Blair pressed his face into Jim's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Jim." 

"No!" Jim cupped his hand beneath Blair's chin and tilted his friend's face up. "Don't ever be sorry. You gave up everything for me. You gave up your career, your, your life." Jim sighed. "I'm the one who's sorry." 

"It's not your fault, Jim. I thought I could do it." Blair's eyes drifted past Jim, focusing on something that couldn't be seen. "I was wrong." 

Jim didn't respond, other than to pull Blair back into his arms. One arm slipped protectively around Blair's waist, the other hand slid underneath the thick curls to press against Blair's warm neck. Jim's lips brushed against the silky hair, his nose catalogued the smells of shampoo, conditioner, herbal soap, teardrops, and blood. Jim knew that he was responsible for those last two smells, responsible for the pain in Blair's voice and the shivering in the slender form pressed against him. He was a Sentinel who'd hurt his Guide. He had no right to ask Blair to stay. 

The first thing Blair saw upon waking was Jim's hand clutching the wildly patterned comforter in a white-knuckled grip. Jim's breath moved along the back of his neck, warm and slightly damp. Jim's quiet snores filled his ears. Jim's solid body curled against his back, one arm around Blair's chest, the hand clutching the comforter so desperately, the other stretched above Blair's head, fingers tangled in the riotous curls. 

Blair gently removed the hand in his hair, pressing a kiss to the knuckles before releasing it. Jim's hand spasmed at the lost, the fingers curling into a fist, but the sleeping Sentinel didn't wake. Gently, Blair rolled over in Jim's arms. 

Jim's face looked older; the few hours of sleep weren't enough to erase the lines from his eyes and mouth. His jaw twitched in his sleep, and his arms tightened around Blair, a brief, spasmodic gesture that spoke measures of desperation. Blair frowned at the movement, trying to feel something. He could sense sadness, guilt at the pain in his Sentinel's face, but the emotions were distant, hidden behind a thick wall of glass. Even the weight of Jim's arms, the knowledge that he'd spent the night curled around Jim in the narrow futon, didn't ease his emptiness. 

"I love you," Blair breathed. But while he knew the words to be true, his heart didn't swell with the usual exhilarating mixture of hopelessness and euphoria. Blair sighed, detangling himself from Jim's arms. 

He'd known that his first kill would destroy something in him as well, something vital to Blair Sandburg, anthropologist-turned-detective and Shaman of the Great City. He'd known, but he'd tried not to think about it. If this emptiness were a result of his first kill, then what would happen with his second, or his third? Blair didn't want to know. 

Blair stood carefully, drawing in a breath when Jim moaned in his sleep, reaching anxiously at the spot where Blair had been, before wrapping himself around one of the pillows lining the wall. Blair felt a spark of tenderness at the movement, but it was a small spark, and didn't touch the ice packed around his heart. 

Blair moved slowly to the closet and pulled on an old Rainier University t-shirt. He switched his sweatpants for his oldest pair of jeans and slipped his feet into his Birkenstocks. Blair risked one more glance at Jim, and fled the room. 

The Volvo started without complaint, and Blair just drove for a while, comforting himself with the familiar streets of Cascade. The early morning sunlight streaming through the window warmed him, as did the steady movement of the car. Blair slowed as he passed the PD, circling twice before pulling into his parking space. 

Nobody in Major Crimes would quite meet his eyes, although Joel patted him on the shoulder and Megan asked if he was all right. Blair, for his part, avoided sinking into the easy camaraderie of the bullpen, determined not to remember the happiness he'd found there. 

He lingered as he passed Jim's desk, lifting one of the framed photos. Blair recognized it as one that Simon had taken during a camping trip last summer. He and Jim stood closely together, arms around each other's shoulders. Stubble traced their jaw lines, Blair's hair was a mess, and Jim's usually neat clothes were wrinkled. They looked happy. Carefree. In love. 

In love? Blair frowned at the thought, but didn't deny it. Jim loved him. He saw it in press of Jim's hand against his bicep, in the rare openness of Jim's smile, and the tenderness in his eyes. Blair thought back to last night, spending the night with Jim cramped into his narrow futon, molded to him like a protective shell. Jim hadn't protested when Blair spoke of leaving, but Blair remembered the tears running down his roommate's face. 

A shock of pain flashed through Blair at the memory, and he dropped the photo, hurrying at once to Simon's office. Blair knocked once, and slid inside at the Captain's terse "Come in." 

"Sandburg, what the hell are you doing here?" 

Blair took a deep breath, forcing the words out before he could change his mind. 

"Simon, I want to resign." 

"You what!" Simon stood suddenly, stepping around Blair to close the door. "Sandburg, sit   
down." 

Blair perched on the edge of the seat, folding his hands over his knees. He didn't meet Simon's eyes, even after several minutes of silence. Finally, the larger man spoke. 

"Listen, Blair, the first time gets to all of us. I wasn't joking when I told you to see a therapist. Have you made an appointment yet?" 

Blair shook his head and Simon rolled his eyes. 

"Do it. Honestly, Sandburg, I expect that from Jim, not you." 

Blair shrugged. "I'll make an appointment. But Simon, I've been in therapy on-and-off since I was nine-years-old. I know what she's going to say. It won't change my mind." 

"Maybe not. But do it anyway. Goddammit, Sandburg, I don't want to see you throw everything away!" 

"I already did that, Simon," Blair said. 

The subject hung in the air between them; Blair's dissertation was a taboo subject, by the unspoken agreement of everyone involved. Finally, Simon sighed. 

"I know you did, Sandburg. We all know. But Blair, as much as I never thought I'd say this, you are a great cop. I don't want to see you leave. Nobody does." Blair absorbed the words, but remained silent. 

"Look, have you talked to Jim about this?" Simon asked. 

"He knows." 

"And he's okay with it?" 

"It's my choice, Simon." 

"Yeah, I guess it is." Simon sighed. "So you're dead set on this?" 

"Uh-huh." 

"What do you think you'll do afterwards?" 

Blair raked his fingers through his hair. "I don't know, Simon. I thought about looking into applied anthropology. An MA will get me into most government or corporate consulting positions. Hell, I even thought about going back to school. Not Rainier, obviously, but maybe I could look into the U of W's criminology program." 

"And Jim?" 

Blair raised a hand. "Look, I'm not abandoning Jim. I mean, I'm his . . ." 

"You're his partner." Simon nodded at the abashed expression on Blair's face. "Sandburg, you already gave up your life for him. He's not going to ask you to do it again. But please, think before you do anything rash. See a counselor and take a few days off. Give it a week, okay? After that, if you're still set on doing this, I'll accept your resignation." 

"Thank you, Simon." 

  * * * 



After leaving the station, Blair couldn't bring himself to return to the loft. He drove without purpose for a while, threading his way through the narrow streets down by the waterfront, then doubling back, moving along the arterials by the strip mall. He stopped thinking after awhile, his hands clutching the steering wheel. 

He drove as the rush hour traffic built around him. He drove as it died away. He drove as the sky blazed orange above him, and drove as it died into darkness, blanketed by thick clouds. He drove as the first of the raindrops splattered against the windshield; drove until he fought to see through a curtain of rain. He didn't realize that he drove with a purpose until he pulled into the faculty parking lot of Rainier University. 

The sound of the engine died. Blair blinked, staring at his own hand on the key in the ignition. He shouldn't be here. The dead should move on, not return to haunt the battlefields of their old life. 

Blair realized that he'd pulled into his old spot. By habit, his eyes swung to the rearview mirror, where his parking permit used to hang. It's absence struck him as hilarious, and a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. The smile grew into a series of giggles, which transformed into gulping laughter, and then he was sobbing. 

Blair buried his face into the steering wheel, clutching it until his fingers turned white. He wanted to belong here again. He wanted to be Blair the academic, not Sandburg the cop. Mostly, he wanted Jim to be here with him, holding him as he struggled for breath. 

Something thumped against the car door. Blair looked up, half expecting to see Jim standing outside the Volvo with a frown on his face and fear in his eyes. But nobody was there. Blair frowned, peering through the rain-streaked window. Another thump followed, and in panic, he glanced down. 

A gigantic wolf stood there, watching him with expectant eyes. Blair stared down at it, somehow unafraid. Its mouth formed something disturbingly similar to a grin, and it backed up a few feet. That was a hint if ever Blair saw one. He reached for the door handle, and stepped out into the rain. The wolf nodded approvingly, then turned and trotted down the path towards Hargrove Hall. Strangely calm, Blair followed. 

Blair slowed as he reached the fountain, remembered terror clawing at his chest. His breath came fast again, and he sank to his knees. His desperate coughs couldn't ease the damp shadow still clinging to his lungs, couldn't clear the panic from his throat. Tears rose up in his eyes again, but then sharp teeth brushed against the skin on his arm, driving the edge of panic away. 

The wolf closed a strong jaw around Blair's forearm, not biting, not breaking the skin, just reminding him. He was here, kneeling on the cold bricks with the rain soaking his hair, his t-shirt. He was alive, and Alex was gone. The wolf licked his wrist, then released him. Blair stood on unsteady legs and followed it the remaining few feet to the fountain. 

The wolf rose up on hind legs. Fur faded away, the bone structure reshaped, and then Blair was staring at himself. He wore the same ripped jeans, faded t-shirt, and Birkenstocks, but this Blair's hair was longer than his own, curling wild around the other's face. The earrings sparkled against the other Blair's skin, a leather cord held an ankh against his throat. This Blair wore a golden badge hooked onto the gun holster threaded around his waist. 

Laughing blue eyes met Blair's own, and the other Blair grinned, sinking easily into a lotus pose on the edge of the fountain. "What do you fear?" he asked. 

Blair gulped, but answered immediately. "The fountain. I fear the fountain." 

The other Blair shook his head, a gentle smile pulling at his mouth. "What do you fear?" he repeated. 

"I fear death." 

"You've died before. You risk death every day. What do you fear?" 

Blair lowered his eyes, not wanting to see the compassion on his own face. "I, I fear losing myself, losing track of who I want to be." Blair dropped his voice to a whisper. "I fear the person I might become." 

The other Blair smiled, a quick, triumphant flash of teeth. "You fear change." 

"Yes." 

"Does the seed fear the day that it will grow into a tree? Does the caterpillar hide in the chrysalis, afraid of seeing its own wings? Does the snake cling to his old skin, too afraid to grow a new one?" The other Blair rose, moving forward until they stood face to face. 

"Nature moves forward, Blair. You moved into his world the moment you jumped in front of that garbage truck, yet you refused to step out of your own. You can't do that, man. A Sentinel's guide can only afford once center to his life. But you didn't see the signs. You didn't listen, and so you died. But even then, you refused to see." 

Blair shook his head, tears stinging behind his eyes. "That's not true! I, I tried to talk about it with Jim. He wasn't ready, man! What else was I supposed to do?" 

"He was afraid. It's your job to move him past the fear, to help him see the possibilities on the other side. No, the choice was as much yours as his. You wouldn't cast off your skin, and so fate tore it off for you." 

"What?" 

"The dissertation, man! Do you think it was an accident? Do you think mothers always send their son's manuscripts into publishers without telling them? No. That was FATE, Blair. That was life kicking you in the ass and telling you to get your act together. But even then, you didn't listen." 

"What are you talking about?" Blair could feel the tears spilling down face, but didn't care. "I gave up everything for him, man!" 

"Everything but yourself." Blair's double wiped away his tears with gentle fingers, cupped his face between strong hands. "How many more deaths will it take? Let go of your skin, Blair. Not for your Sentinel. For yourself." 

The other Blair faded away, until only the warmth of his hands on Blair's face remained. Blair touched his own cheek, wondering if the other had been a hallucination. He realized that it didn't really matter. 

Taking a deep breath, Blair stepped closer to the fountain. The sound of running water grated on his nerves. Below it, he could still here the crack of his gun exploding beneath his hands, the sickening impact of a bullet on living flesh. "Let it go," the other Blair whispered in his mind. 

Blair raised a trembling hand to the hem of his t-shirt. He could do this. For Jim, he could do anything. With one swift move, he stripped away the damp fabric. It was almost a relief not to feel clammy cotton against his chest. Blair glanced around, making sure that the campus was deserted. He tugged down his jeans, kicking off his Birkenstocks to slide the denim past his feet. He stood shivering for a moment in his blue boxer shorts, and then took a deep breath. Not giving himself time to think about his actions, he shimmied out of the silky fabric. 

Naked. He, Blair Sandburg, man of a thousand layers, was standing naked in the rain on a university campus. Shit. What would Jim think? Blair felt a reluctant grin pulling on his mouth, and he surrendered to it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd really smiled. 

Blair closed the remaining few steps to the fountain, and climbed up onto ledge surrounding it. He stared down at his own reflection, distorted by the movement of the water. His smile faded, and a lump rose in his throat. "Goodbye, Professor Sandburg." He stepped forward. 

The first touch of water against his skin shocked him. Blair blinked, staring down at it. In his dreams, he remembered this water going on forever, rising up over his head and into eternity. But the cool water lapped softly against his hips, not even reaching his waist. 

Slowly, Blair sank to his knees. The water splashed higher, wetting the fur of his chest, and with it came the fear. Blair held tightly to his breath, refused to give into panic. He lay backwards, and the water covered his face. 

Jim heard the unsteady rumble of the Volvo's engine the minute it turned onto their block. He breathed a shaky sigh of relief when Blair's footsteps sounded on the stairs, and resisted the urge to meet his guide halfway up. Instead he settled for leaning against the open door jam, extending his smell to catch the earthy fragrance of Blair's skin, marred by the faint stench of chlorinated water. 

Jim caught his breath, remembering Blair's lips, cold and unresponsive beneath his own. He concentrated on the sound of Blair's heartbeat. Only when Blair's head finally bobbed into view, did Jim allow himself to relax. 

Blair's white t-shirt was damp, almost transparent in places, and his hair hung in damp snake tendrils around his face. Jim could easily pick out the raised gooseflesh on Blair's arms, the beads of water clinging to the soft hair there. 

"Where were you?" Jim meant the words to sound accusing, but his voice was tender, scratchy with relief. 

"I needed to think some things through." Blair caught his eyes before moving into the loft, and Jim fumbled to shut the door behind him. He felt flushed, lightheaded, and dizzy with relief. 

"You're wet." 

"Score one for the detective." Blair smile took the edge off of the words. "I went swimming, man. And it was freezing. I hear a hot shower calling my name." 

Jim followed forlornly to the bathroom door, resisting the urge to trail inside. Instead he rested his cheek against the wooden door, listened to the soft squelching sounds as Blair stripped away the wet clothing. Blair's blood temperature rose slightly as he stepped under the streaming water, releasing the intoxicating scent of pure Blair. Jim breathed deeply, opening his mouth to catch the faint echo of taste along his tongue. 

"Hey Jim, buddy?" Blair spoke quietly from inside the shower, as if he knew the Sentinel would be listening in. 

Jim blushed to be caught, but answered immediately. "Yeah, Chief?" 

"Can you do me a favor and get me some clothes? I forgot to bring some in with me." 

For the second time in two days, Jim found himself digging through the chaos of Blair's dresser for a pair of sweats and some thick socks. He stepped into the bathroom just as Blair stepped out of the shower with the towel knotted loosely around his waist. Jim's cock jumped at the water droplets jewelling Blair's chest, the faint layer of steam fogging his nipple ring. He thrust the clothing into Blair's arms and turned to leave, but his roommate caught him by the sleeve. 

"Hold up a minute, Jim." 

Awkwardly, Jim leaned against the bathroom wall, staring fixedly at the sofa as he listened to Blair dressing behind him. The smooth slide of the cotton boxers over Blair's cock and balls brought a solid lump of yearning to his throat. Jim ground his fingernails into his palms, latching onto the pain until it drowned out his other senses. He almost jumped when Blair touched his forearm. 

"Man, you need to relax." Blair kneaded the muscles in Jim's arms for a moment, and then threaded his arm around Jim's waist, snuggling up against Jim's side. "Lets sit down for a minute. We need to talk." 

They moved to the couch. Jim sat cautiously in one corner, and Blair plopped down close beside him, resting his head against Jim's shoulder. Jim just breathed for a moment, warning some definitely not relaxed portions of his anatomy to settle down, then cautiously brought an arm around Blair's shoulders. 

His guide sighed, snuggling into the half embrace. "I talked to Simon today." 

"I know." Jim had gone to the station first, afraid of what he might find out. "Are you still . . ." 

"Resigning? No." 

Jim couldn't stop the grin. He tugged Blair closer, reaching to comb the tangled curls with his fingers. "What changed your mind?" 

"I died." 

Jim stiffened at the words, pulling back to stare into his guide's eyes. Blair smiled, his eyes clear, like tropical waters on a sunny day. He patted Jim's shoulder, hastening to reassure him. 

"Not a literal death, Jim. You see, most ancient societies had some ritualized way of symbolizing the move from one phase of life to the next. For example, in some cultures a boy undergoes a ritual circumcision when he goes through puberty. Granted, not all rituals are that painful, but the basic idea is the same. You have to have a symbolic death before you can be reborn into your new life." 

"Don't tell me you tried a ritual circumcision, Chief." 

Blair grinned. "Nah, it's a little too late for that, man. But today I realized that I never symbolized the moment when I became your guide. I mean, the single most important moment of my life, and I let it go by without even acknowledging it."   
"Aw, Chief." Jim blinked, hoping that Blair wouldn't notice the brightness of his eyes. "That's . . . no one has ever said that I was that important to them." 

Blair tightened his grip on Jim's shoulders. "They were idiots, Jim." 

Jim pressed his forehead to Blair's shoulder for a second. Blair held him close, resting a cheek against Jim's hair. Jim fought to control his breathing, to quell the tears threatening to spill over. If there was dampness on his face when he looked up, Blair pretended not to see it. 

"What did you do?" Jim asked to distract him. 

"You mean the ritual? I jumped in the fountain." 

"Jesus, Chief." 

Blair blushed at the admiration in Jim's voice. 

"I had to, man. It was fitting. I needed to drown the parts of me that interfered with my new life. With you." 

"I'm sorry, Chief." 

"But I'm not!" Blair bore his gaze into Jim's eyes. "Don't you see that, Jim? Sure, I'll miss the old me. I'll miss the fieldwork and the papers and the teaching. But you are my life. I would die a hundred more deaths to keep it that way." 

Jim stared down at Blair, at the love shining in those dark blue eyes. Blair's words, "You are my life," sounded in his head. Who had ever loved him the way Blair did? Who ever would? Praying that love was enough, Jim leaned forward and pressed his lips to Blair's. It was a quick kiss, a light kiss, and Blair touched his lips when it was over. "What, uh, what was that for, Jim?" 

"Call it a symbolic death, Chief." Jim leaned down again. Any doubt that Jim harbored about this new facet of their relationship disappeared when Blair's mouth opened beneath his own. 

Blair tasted like honey. Like autumn leaves and wood smoke, like ripe apples, rich spices, and warm spring sunshine. His tongue slithered into Jim's mouth, and Jim groaned, hauling the smaller man onto his lap. Blair tasted right, like something he wanted to taste and taste again for the rest of his life. Jim's cock was hard, aching in his jeans, and he could feel Blair's erection pressing into his stomach. 

Jim whimpered slightly when Blair pulled away, and Blair grinned, a daze expression in his eyes. 

"That's a symbolic death?" he whispered. 

"More like a rebirth," Jim answered, and kissed him again. Blair moaned agreement into his mouth and rocked forward, grinding their crotches together. 

Outside, the stars cycled forward, clearing the way for morning. 

The End. 


End file.
